


Kiss the Prophet

by GiggleSnortBangDead



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - Kingdom, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Religious, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad Touch, Blasphemy, Derogatory Language, First Time, Incest, Knotting, M/M, Masturbation, Mates, Oral Sex, Prince Stiles, Prophet Derek, Rimming, Salome Knockoff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:05:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiggleSnortBangDead/pseuds/GiggleSnortBangDead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As he laid eyes on the prophet for the first time, the man started to growl, low and warning. Stiles, in response, forgot how to breathe. </p><p>Or, The Author Gets Blasphemous</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Salome's Seduction

**Author's Note:**

> Uhm, some notes.
> 
> Peter and Deucalion are married. They adopted Stiles. They're just a normal, happy, totally creepy Royal Family.
> 
> Deucalion is only blind in a metaphorical sense. I'm sure, on the road to Damascus, the Light of the True Alpha's Salvation will blind him. However, until then, he's got all his senses up to snuff.
> 
> This is based - very loosely, so loosely, oh my God, what am I even doing this with? - on the story of Salome and John the Baptist.
> 
> I may very well be the reason you shouldn't send your kids to Catholic school.

Stiles had been staring at him for nearly ten minutes. He was quiet enough, and he wasn’t fidgeting as much as he usually did. Still, the _look_ could only be ignored for so long.

Deucalion put down his work and leveled a look back at the boy. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Stiles said immediately.

“Stiles,” Deucalion snapped, “What do you want?”

“Who was that man brought in today?” 

The Alpha sighed. “Stiles, I’m busy.” 

“Oh.” Stiles nodded. “Of course,” And he fell silent again but didn’t move. He just kept sitting there - fidgeting only slightly for another minute until Deucalion couldn’t bear it again.

He sat back in his chair, almost glaring. Stiles smiled sheepishly at him. “Will you go away if I tell you?” His son nodded vehemently, and Deucalion looked back down at his work. “Some new prophet. He’s absolutely nothing like any of the _good_ prophets. He keeps telling me I’m damned.” The Alpha sent the boy a mildly amused look. 

Absently, Stiles said, “I could hardly see his face when they brought him in.”

“He was causing some kind of disturbance downtown. You’ll have to ask Peter. He knows more than I do about this. I think they may actually know each other personally - him and the prophet.”

“Can I meet him?” Stiles perked up.

His father looked at him sharply. “Absolutely not.”

Stiles just nodded indulgently and excused himself from the room.

* * *

Stiles went to the dungeon instead. Shutting the door quietly behind him, all he could hear was lost, enraged howling. “Oh my God,” he said to the door, “Is that him?”

“That’s the prophet.” Stiles startled and gasped, turning on his heel. He narrowed his eyes at the woman speaking.

“Jesus, Kali! Warn a guy!”

She snorted. “ _A guy_ shouldn’t be down here.”

“I want to see him.” Stiles said, gesturing in the direction of the anguished howls and taking a step towards it. Kali blocked his path.

“No.” she said.

“Deucalion said it was okay.” Stiles lied.

“No, he didn’t.” she told him.

“No.” Stiles glowered at his feet. “He didn’t.”

“Go back up.” Kali order, nudging him lightly away, not even trying to seem anything more than mildly annoyed.

“Come on, Kali, _please_. Only for a minute.” He tried to push past her but she just raised an eyebrow and started to herd him out more aggressively. “I’ll put in a good word for you with my dad.”

“Which one?” she asked, and she sounded like she wasn’t actually considering the proposition. 

Stiles huffed. “Whichever one you want. Both, even. But, _please_ , can I see the prophet?”

“No.” she snapped, shoving him, “Move it.”

Stiles panicked. “Uhm, I’ll - I’ll hook you up with Ennis.” and Kali paused, so Stiles, sighing in relief, continued, “Yeah. I can do it. He thinks you’re cute anyway. Or, uh, not cute. _Terrifying_ , but I think he likes that.” 

Kali started to force him towards the door again. “Well, now that I have this information, I don’t really need your help, do I?”

“ _Ugh_.” Stiles groaned. “Fine, then, I’ll have my dad send Ennis to... Fucking.. Fucking far away. He’ll be in China next time you hear from him.”

“I’ve got some frequent flyer miles saved up,” and she finally got him to the door and opened it, herding him outside. “Go play with your friends like a normal kid.”

“I don’t _have_ friends like a normal kid.” Stiles spat back, and then blanched, his eyes widening. “Wait, I didn’t meant it like that. I’m really popular. I have lots of friends!” he assured her as she shut the door. The entirety of her response sounded like laughter.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he swore to himself. He really needed to get in there.

* * *

What it really came down to was the miracle of modern technology and how flammable a lot of Kali’s clothes were (when doused with lighter fluid in her bathtub). Stiles was careful, covering all of his tracks, knowing more than a few ways to mask his scent, and only choosing the most atrocious articles from her wardrobe - things no one would ever miss. The little fire, lit and abandoned, shouldn’t have spread too much - and it didn’t.

Kali, however, had to be informed. Stiles, stationed just out of view by the dungeon door, listened to her swear loudly as she ran in the direction of her smoldering clothes, giving him the opportunity to duck in. 

He wasted no time once inside in locating the prophet The howling had died down but, as Stiles, running down a few cells and stopping abruptly, laid eyes on him for the first time, the prophet started to growl, low and warning. 

Stiles, in response, forgot how to breathe. He stood there, gaping, taking slow step after slow step forward. The growling got louder and the boy’s heart pumped in his ears and he felt waves of something previously unknown rushing over him.

The prophet was perfection itself. A little dirty maybe (okay, _very_ dirty) but Stiles couldn’t even bring himself to care (too much). With dark hair and eyes glowing blue and teeth bared at him, Stiles almost wanted to smile and shush him like a child or a friend. Because how could he ever think of harming this brilliance? He could never pose the man any threat.

“My God.” Stiles said, taking another step closer. “I want to have you.”

The man snarled and swiped a hand through the bars at Stiles. It startled a jump and a laugh out of him, and he blinked into a less dazed state.

“What’s your name?” Stiles asked. The prophet said nothing. “Well, then. Let me hear your spiel. Prophesize.”

“I wouldn’t expect the product of poor breeding to be able to hear the truth of the coming Savior.” the man barked, teeth still bared, but human now. He had the sweetest bunny teeth Stiles had ever seen - and they were hardly frightening, so he took another step forward.

“You know who I am?” he grinned.

“You’re the son of the Demon Wolf.”

Stiles laughed. “Well, sure. But he’s not my dad.”

And the prophet blinked, almost looking thrown. “Peter...”

“Oh, please,” the boy scoffed, very close to the bars now. A hand came to curl around one. “Sometimes I call him Daddy, but I think he gets a less than paternal rush from it. Certainly,” Stiles said, bowing his head a little and looking up through his lashes, “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“So, the taken _whore_ son of a blind Alpha and a murderer has come to grace me with his presence.” the prophet sneered and took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Good God, did _you_ dress yourself?” Stiles gaped, ignoring the previous insult. “God, it’s like your clothing is _painted_ on. Come closer,” he bid, “I want to touch you.” He reached a hand through the bars and the prophet eyed it with distaste.

“Did you hear what I just said?” he growled. “I have no interest in some boy whose father's reign will be cut short soon.”

“Ooh, how scandalous.” Stiles said, raising his eyebrows and pacing the front of the cell, his hand catching the bars in passing. “And who’s gonna dethrone Deucalion? He’s the Alpha of Alphas.” The prophet was silent once more, glaring again. Stiles eyed the keys that hung on the opposite wall. “I could just come in.”

“I’ll kill you.” the man grit out quickly.

“What kind of prophet are you?” Stiles asked, taking the keys in hand and making quick work of the lock. “Killing someone who just wants to worship at your altar.”

“You don’t worship the prophets.”

“You don’t tell a prince what to do.” Stiles locked himself in and hung the key around his neck. “Come here,” he said again, but the prophet refrained. The boy leaned against the cell bars. “Tell me more about your treason. Who dethrones my dad?”

“The True Alpha.” 

“The-” and Stiles stopped, straightening up, trying to process. “The True Alpha.”

“He will rise without stealing power, within the Alpha Kings’ territory. He will come to His power by the force of His own will. His Pack will be the strongest ever seen, and it will spread out over all nations. He will be the strongest Alpha ever known - and the likes of you or I will never be fit to run with Him.”

“I’m not really fit to run with anyone, as it is.” The prophet almost looked confused - which would have indicated interest, which would have pleased Stiles to no end. He clarified, “Humans don’t keep up very well.”

“You smell like a wolf.” The prophet seemed nearly shocked and, therefore, interested. Stiles pounced on the opportunity. 

“Oh, no. I’m one hundred percent bona fide human. Do you think I’m lying?” he asked, grinning. “Come over here; feel my heart.”

“As if I would ever touch the human _pet_ of the Alpha Kings.”

“Not pet. Son.” Stiles correctly, slowly. “But, I could be persuaded to be your pet.” And he finally took a step towards the man. “Or, I could keep you as mine.” 

“I only have one Master.”

“Oh, yes. How could I forget?” Stiles nodded in mocking. “ _The True Alpha_.”

“Non-believers will, of course,” the prophet told him with a sneer, “Be given multiple opportunities to repent and renounce their vile wants and upbringings.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand your prophesy.” Stiles said, his head cocking as a look of feigned nescience crinkled his brow. “Maybe if you come closer. Whisper it to me.” 

“Your impure desires reflect your parentage.” 

A look of frustration finally crossed the boy’s face. “You talk way too much. I hate the way your voice sounds. I can totally see why they wanted to lock you up.”

The prophet said nothing, just glowered, and Stiles beamed again, his whole person glowing as he took in the man’s. “But, _you_ \- physically. I don’t think I’ve ever seen something so beautiful.” He took another step in, which pushed the man back into the corner. Stiles didn’t advance any more yet, but felt a little smug. “Do I make you nervous?”

“I have nothing to fear from you.”

“I think you do.” Stiles said, smiling easy. “I’ve been told I’m not terrible to look at. And, I have certain,” and he wet his lips here to see if the prophet’s attention would snag on the movement - which it did. “ _Assets_ that some say make me desirable. And, regardless of whatever everyone says, I actually _can_ read other people. I know a desperate man when I see one. So, if my interest is impure, your’s must be downright _sinful_.”

The prophet did look uncomfortable and he fixed his gaze on the wall behind Stiles as he said, “I could kill you so quickly. You wouldn’t have a chance to call for help.”

“Why don’t you?” Stiles taunted. The prophet’s eyes widened in confusion, his eyebrows jolting upwards, as he looked at the boy again. “I think I’d be alright if you killed me a little. I wouldn’t mind a little death - if it came from you. You might even be able to distract me long enough to get the key and run. I promise - I won’t try to stop you.”

“A prince has no business nothing about things like this.” the man told him, his voice stilted.

“Neither does a prophet.” Stiles countered, then added. “A prophet shouldn’t want to fuck a young man.”

“ _Boy_.” the prophet corrected through his teeth. “And, let me assure you, he _doesn’t_.”

Stiles hummed and closed in, taking in every detail of the man’s chest and neck and face. The prophet said nothing, but grew very still, his nostrils flaring as the boy stepped into his space. Meeting the man’s eyes - and they were _lovely_ \- Stiles showed his teeth in a smile. ‘If you kiss me, I promise I’ll be your ally. I can help you get out of here.”

“And be what?” The prophet asked, leaning away, his face turned, as the boy came closer, almost seeming to scent his neck. “Your _pet?_ ”

“No.” Stiles said, shaking his head, and then pulling back, his eye locked on the prophet’s lips. “You can be my lover, though.” He met the man’s gaze, and something hopeful and young crossed his face - something altogether unintentional and completely unlike the confident flirtation of earlier. His hand fell to the prophet’s waist, touching his dirty shirt, pressing their bodies together. The man almost seemed to be squirming, eyes darting from Stiles’s eyes to his lips to the other corners of the cell. 

“Don’t you want to kiss me?” the boy asked in a hush, his breath hot over the man’s parted lips. “I’ve never done it before. You can be my first. Don’t you want to be a prince’s first kiss?”

Quite suddenly, he was being forcibly flipped. His back slammed against the hard cell wall as the prophet - who was so delightfully _strong_ \- held him there. A throaty, low, mildly aroused laugh almost left the boy’s mouth until he glanced up and saw the expression coloring the man’s face.

“The only reason.” his spat, his eyes flashing, “I would _ever_ touch you would be to brush you aside like the filth that you are. Any person with even the slightest moral standing would be able to see how much of a petty _whore_ you are. The thought of you disgusts me and the greatest torture I could imagine, seconded only by being locked in a cell with you for any length of time, would involve you lips and _assets_. Neither are appealing, as you are the most unpleasant _thing_ to have walked this earth. 

“When the True Alpha rises, I am certain the first act He will carry out, after killing your traitorous fathers, will be to lock you away for the common good. I’m sure everyone will be able to stomach their food a little better without a face like your’s around. While I crave this day, I also hope I am put to death soon so I never have to see or hear or _smell_ you again.”

Stiles blinked. “I-” He blinked again. Heat crawled over his face, and he found himself rapidly blinking back tears. “I-” he choked out. He began to wriggle in the man’s hold, trying to get away. He was let go, and the prophet’s hands were suddenly so soft and gentle and it _wasn’t fair_. Stiles stepped several paces away. 

“You’re _insane_. I can’t wait for your execution. I _hate_ you.” he told the man. A hand came to his eyes, brushing away falling tears, feeling beyond embarrassed. “You and your Savior!” He tried to keep himself from sobbing - which he refused to do. He _couldn’t_. His breath hitched anyway and he heard someone shout his name. Sharply, he looked up to see Kali and his fathers, all staring at him from outside the cell.

He walked quickly, sniffling, and pulled the key from around his neck. He fumbled with the lock, but, instead of getting himself out, dropped the key. Peter tutted and stepped over to help his son with the latch.

Deucalion pulled him out once the cell door was open. “I told you not to come down here.” he barked. Stiles nodded, shaking a little, as he tried to stop crying.

“Deucalion.” Peter chided, wrapping an arm around the boy’s shoulder and pulling him in. He cradled the boy’s head against his neck, absently petting through his hair, as Stiles clutched weakly at his shirt. “He’s upset. Don’t you think this can wait?”

The Alpha sighed, sounding more than just annoyed, but must have seen something reasonable in that. To Kali, he said, “I’m sorry for the trouble. We’ll compensate you for the damages. I’m sure Stiles will also want to apologize to you _extensively_ for his actions.” Kali just made some small, irritated noise. 

Peter, pulling out a handkerchief, broke their tight hold, drying the boy’s eyes, cooing at him. “Let’s get you to your room.” He let Stiles take the cloth to blow his nose and then ushered his son and husband upstairs.

* * *


	2. Dance of the Seven Veils

Peter took Stiles to his room, murmuring a, “Daddy and I will be back a little later,” his fingers nipping the boy’s chin. He parted with a kiss on his son’s forehead, closing the door behind him, leaving the boy alone. 

Stiles flopped forward onto his bed, burying his face into the pillow. There was a knock on his door and he muffed out, “Come in.” The door opened and a bright, amused voice sounded.

“Dude, did you really set Kali’s clothes on - Oh.” Scott paused and Stiles turned on his side to look at him. “What happened to you? You look like shit.”

“The prophet thinks so too.”

Scott stared at him. “Uhm...” Stiles sat up and rubbed his red, swollen eyes. “You saw the prophet?”

“Yeah. He’s a dick.” Stiles told his friend, who sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. “A crazy, delusional, _gorgeous_ dick. And, I just made the biggest ass of myself in front of Dad and Peter - and Kali! Oh my God,” he groaned. “Kali’s gonna tell _everyone_.”

“What happened?” Scott asked.

“It’s too horrible to say.” Stiles said solemnly, and the corners of Scott’s lips twitched but he maintained a look of composure. “But, do you remember last year when I accidentally tripped over Lydia and she yelled at me for ten minutes in front of everyone.” 

“I don’t think I could ever forget that. Ever.”

Stiles nodded. “This was worse than that. By, like, a million percent.”

Scott whistled. “Wow, dude, that blows.”

“And I started _crying_ \- in front of _everyone_.”

“Everyone being Kali and your dads?” Scott clarified.

“ _Yeah_.” Stiles nodded. “It was beyond embarrassing. I absolutely _hate_ the prophet and his stupid “True Alpha.” God, can you even believe that? It’s like believing in Santa or the Easter Bunny. Jesus Christ.” he swore. “And to think I wanted to-” Stiles cut himself off.

“What?” Scott asked suspiciously. “What did you want to do?” 

Stiles shook his head. “Nothing. It was stupid. I wouldn’t have done it anyway.”

There was a knock on his door and Scott stood to leave. “Don’t dismiss the prophet so easily. True Alphas are rare but it’s happened before.” 

“Uh-huh, Scott, _sure_.” Stiles said, sniffling, waving him off. 

“I’m serious.” his friend said, hand on the doorknob, giving him a look that lacked any sort of humor.

Stiles perked up, his brow furrowing. “Do you know something?” Scott just smiled and shrugged, opening the door to Peter and Deucalion. “Scott, what do you know?” Stiles called after him, but his friend was already out and his fathers were filing in.

“What was that about?” Peter hummed. Stiles just shook his head. Deucalion, shutting the door, came to stand by his husband, looking at their son evenly.

“Stiles, what did I say about seeing the prophet?” he asked slowly.

Stiles squirmed a little, looking between both men. “You told me not to.”

“Yes.” Deucalion nodded. “I told you not to.” and he was clearly waiting for an explanation Stiles didn’t have.

“Uhm... I’m sorry? I really won’t do it again. Ever. At all. Totally learned my lesson. _Do not_ want to be in a room with the prophet ever again in my life.”

“I know that.” his father said, and Stiles looked down, clearly not going to get off the hook. Deucalion sighed. “Stiles, he could have killed you.”

“Ah,” Peter cut in. “No. That would have been very unlikely. Derek has never enjoyed killing anyone - and he’s so sentimental about humans.” Deucalion glared at him and Peter amended. “Injured - yes. You could have been terribly injured.” 

“Well,” Stiles said, throwing a hand up. “I won’t do it again. I promise. What else do you want from me?”

“There’s also the issue of Kali.” his father began and Stiles groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You broke into her _private_ rooms and went through her things without permission. And then you lit them on fire. You could have burnt yourself. You could have burnt down the whole building.”

“The fire, admittedly,” Peter allowed, “Was very well contained and _no one_ is going to miss that yellow blazer.” He received another look from his husband and added, “But that was very wrong, Stiles. Don’t do that again.”

“You’re going to personally apologize to her tomorrow and pay for all of the damages. You’re lucky you saw Scott because I’m revoking your Scott privileges for a month.” 

“A month?” Stiles flared. “You can’t just-”

“I can.” Deucalion snapped, his eyes flashing red for a moment. “And I will. You couldn’t have possibly thought this was going to end well.” 

Stiles opened his mouth but no words came. Finally, he squeaked out, “I just wanted to see the prophet.” and looked down at his hands. Peter tsked and came to sit next to him. Sighing, Deucalion came to his other side. “How much did you guys hear?” he asked, softly, situated snugly between both men.

Peter and Deucalion exchanged a look, and Deucalion said, “We heard you yelling at him.”

“I don’t blame you.” Peter said, his warm hand creeping onto the boy’s thigh. “Derek is infuriating.” 

“How do you know him?” Stiles ventured. 

Peter ignored it. “I want to do something nice for you.” he said. “Unlike your father, I don’t want you to have to suffer through this whole ordeal.” Decualion made a slight noise of dissatisfaction but said nothing. “So, if you do something for me, I’ll return the favor in any way you ask.”

“Except in regard to your punishment.” Deucalion interjected. “Those terms are non-negotiable.” 

“Fine, fine,” Peter sighed. “I’ll do you any favor - excluding your mandatory apology to Kali, your refunding her for her lost, awful wardrobe, and your loss of Scott-privileges.” 

Stiles gazed at him with mild confusion. “And you’ll do anything I want?”

“Anything at all.” Peter promised. “I want you to be happy, dear heart.”

Stiles scooted out of the warmth surrounding him and turned so he was facing his dads. Very seriously, he demanded, “You promise me - on your life - that you’ll do anything I ask?”

Peter, though he looked amused, placed a hand over her heart. “On my life, dearling.” 

“Okay,” Stiles nodded. “What do you want me to do?” 

Peter grinned and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. Deucalion, overhearing, sighed and rolled his eyes. 

“Really, Peter.” he said in mild astonishment.

“What?” Peter asked. “He’s old enough. It’s not like he hasn’t done it before.”

“I still would never ask to _see_.”

“You can pretend you’re blind then. Or leave.” He turned his attention back to the boy, who was already undoing his jeans and shimmying them down, a determined look set on his face.

“Stiles,” his father said. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.” Stiles said, kicking his jeans off. ‘It’s okay. I know what I’m doing.” To Peter, he asked, “Can you hand me my lube? It’s in the-” but Peter was already digging through his bedside drawer, pulling a bottle out and tossing it to the boy. “I’m not surprised that you already know this,” he said, stiffly, “Nor does it worry me. This is normal stuff for you to know.”

“Stiles,” Peter said, to get him back on track.

“Right.” Stiles, trying to tune out his two observers, took a deep breath and pulled down his underwear, tossing it beside his jeans. He slicked his hand up and, glancing up at Peter, started to slowly pump his half-hard cock to fullness. He exhaled one, shaky breath, licking his lips before his mouth fell slack.

The hot, slick-wet grip of his palm was stilled for a moment to lube up the fingers on his other hand. He stopped, considering how to do this exactly, but Peter took the opportunity to catch one of Stiles’s wet hands and pull him to the headboard. He found himself sandwiched in between his dads, one hand stroking his cock while the other came behind him to nudge his fingers against his rim.

“You look divine, my heart.” Peter assured him. Stiles flushed and pressed his face into Peter’s shoulder to hide it. Peter chuckled and he started to pet a hand through his son’s short hair. “Push it in, now.” he urged. Stiles did start to work one finger in, biting his lip to quiet any embarrassing noises. “That’s it, my love. Take it slow.”

“Have you never done this before?” Deucalion asked, his own hand coming to massage the tension out of his son’s shaking, strained arm. Stiles shook his head. “Peter.” Deucalion started, as if admonishing him for pushing Stiles into this.

“Deucalion.” Peter returned, lightly.

“Oh, _God_.” Stiles groaned. He now had two fingers inside, stretching and pressing him open. Deucalion’s hand slipped down, his fingers finding Stiles’s own where they had been nudged inside his rim.

“The angle is terrible for this.” Deucalion stated to his husband. “Flip him around.”

Stiles let himself be maneuvered around, his head falling back onto Peter’s lap and the angle of his fingers inside changing, both arms in front of him, hands between his legs, fingers now pointing inwards, at his center. Deucalion spread the boy’s knees a little, letting one extend over his own thighs.

“Curl your fingers here.” Deucalion said, his hand sliding down the boy’s bent knee to his thigh, and then petting down again.

Stiles did and his body _jolted_. His cock bucked up into his hand abruptly, his hips snapping forward. Deucalion placed a grounding hand on his thigh. 

“Oh, God, oh, fuck.” Stiles groaned, his mouth falling open. He circled, rubbed, pushed in deeper, sweeter. The fingers of his other hand were flicking across the head of his leaking cock, and he was biting down on moan after moan.

“Ah, my darling.” Peter said, softly, a hand still smoothing through his hair. “You’re doing so well. Can you take another finger?” 

Stiles whined out something unintelligible, his fingers pulling and pushing at his core.

“You can work in another.” Deucalion told him.

So, Stiles started to push another digit into his slick, soft heat. He fucked in his hand quickly, feeling so close, as he brought the added finger to rub relentlessly over his prostate with the others. His eyes screwed shut, his hand gripping his cock tighter and faster. Turning his head on Peter’s lap, the man’s light, affectionate touch shifted down, kissing his ear and softly grazing over his neck. 

“Daddy, I’m-” he panted, and Deucalion shushed him.

“I know, baby.” someone over him cooed. And Peter’s fingers were nipping his earlobe, and Deucalion’s hand was groping, very low, on his inner thigh, and he was spilling. There was a gasping, high noise and sparks behind his eyes. Both of his hands were so wet, come and lube practically dripping off, and Peter was praising him like he’d done something extraordinary. 

Stiles finally opened his eyes, panting and shaking with his orgasm, and met Deucalion’s gaze. He sent him a soft, satisfied smile and then twisted a little to look up at Peter.

“That was perfect, heartling. You smell heavenly.” Stiles brought his hand up to Peter’s mouth so he could lick the come off, which he did without hesitation. When done, they were all quiet, and Stiles gazed at his father evenly, color still in his cheeks but dying. He wet his lips and opened his mouth to speak.

“For my favor.” he started.

“Yes, dear.” Peter said, softly, indulgently. 

“I want the head of the prophet.”

There was a pause.

“ _What?_ ”


	3. The Head of John the Baptist

Peter was not easily surprised. More often than not, he had things worked out beforehand. When, on the rare occasion, he was taken by surprise, he was well trained in schooling his own expression. He was good, on those very infrequent moments, at dealing with unwonted situations. Stiles figured that the look of mute shock currently stuck on Peter’s face, seen only in his widening eyes and the tightness of his mouth, was a sight few had been lucky to see. Deucalion started to laugh.

“What was that?” Peter clarified.

“I want. The prophet’s. Head.” Stiles said, very slowly.

Deucalion, still chuckling, said, “Bad luck, Peter. He seems set on this.”

“Darling,” Peter placated. “Certainly, you don’t mean-”

“That I want the prophet’s head? Because that’s exactly what I mean.”

“Stiles, _death_ is not a favor I can give you.”

The boy huffed and sat up to look at him better. “You said anything.” he reminded him. “On your _life_.”

Peter looked to Deucalion, who, still laughing, shook his head. “This is your mess.”

“Dearling, please. Anything else.”

“No.” Stiles refused, flatly.

“Stiles, think about this. Derek is a prophet. Killing a prophet-”

“Do you believe him or something?” Stiles asked, raising an eyebrow. He watched Peter twitch in discomfort. The man took a moment to breathe and collect his thoughts. With an exhale, the panic was gone from his voice and face.

“Stiles,” he said firmly. “I’d be more than happy to punish the prophet in some appropriate manner, which doesn’t result in anyone’s death.”

“No.”

“What if we shorten your separation from Scott by two weeks?” 

“Absolutely not.” Deucalion refused. “We already agreed that those terms were non-negotiable.” 

“Derek is my nephew.” Peter blurted out. Stiles almost laughed at that because, while Peter was rarely surprised, he _never_ blurted out anything. Peter didn’t blurt. Except, apparently, he did. 

Stiles, instead, shrugged. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Peter didn’t respond - it didn’t seem like he could - and so, sighing, Deucalion rose from the bed. “I think it’s time to leave.” Peter got to his feet too, “Goodnight, Stiles.” Deucalion leaned down to kiss his son’s forehead. “Sleep well. You can apologize to Kali in the morning.” Deucalion straightened and turned, laughing out, “Right after Peter gives you the prophet’s head.”

Not sighing, not groaning, seeming to be lost in thought, Peter cupped the boy’s jaw, absently brushing his fingers against Stiles’s cheek. He stared at him with a look of deep concentration.

“Daddy.” Stiles breathed, looking up at him with big eyes.

“It’s alright.” Peter said, leaning forward to pepper a kiss on his temple. “I did promise you. I’ll take care of it.” 

“Thanks, Dad.” Stiles said.

“Shh.” Peter said, his thumb lightly grazing the boy’s bottom lip. “Early morning tomorrow. Get your rest.” Stiles nodded and his father pulled his hand away.

* * *

Someone was gently calling his name, trying to wake him up. Stiles thought that was pretty rude and so he turned over, murmuring something, which made them chuckle. _Rude_.

“Stiles, my heart, wake up.”

“F’ck-off, Peter.” Stiles bitched.

“Stiles, I have your present.” 

The boy’s eyes flew open and he jolted up. He fumbled around next to him for his lamp and flicked it on. Peter stood, leaning in his doorframe, hands clasped behind his back.

“You have it with you.” He stomach turned and flipped, something heavy and victorious but mostly sad coming over him. The prophet had been so beautiful, even if he had been unkind, and extinguishing that glow was starting to make his chest ache. He ignored it though, knowing that, now, he could finally kiss -

Peter pulled something just out of sight into view and Stile’s expression fell, looking unimpressed. Derek stood, in one piece, glaring at the floor. 

“I brought you Derek’s head.” Peter told him.

“It’s still attached to his body.” Stiles pointed out. Blinking, he shook his head a little in disbelief. “I didn’t think I’d have to get so graphic, but when I said “I want the prophet’s head,” I meant-”

“Yes, I know.” Peter sighed, like he had any right to be the one who sounded annoyed. “I brought you something better.”

“I don’t want something _better_.” Stiles started to seethe. “I want-”

“Derek’s going to give you his own head.” 

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Derek’s... Going to give me his own head?”

“Exactly.” Peter nodded. “Derek’s going to give you head.” Stiles’s eyes widened as he finally understood. Derek was being shoved into the room as Peter singsonged, “Call me if you need anything,” and left, slamming the door behind him. 

Derek stood in the middle of the room, practically fuming. He was better than Stiles remembered. He had been cleaned, his beard trimmed, and put in a fresh robe. No matter how furious he looked, the pale pink silk robe was still short in the legs, giving Stiles a long expanse of leg and thigh, and plunged into a low v over his chest - and Stiles was pretty sure a man like Derek wasn’t naturally hairless like this. 

“I-” he started, but had no words to convey what he was feeling. 

The main raised a brow, looking wild and resentful. “Do I look like I’m here for conversation?” 

“Uhm-”

“Why don’t you lie back down?” the prophet said, voice smooth but eyes cold. “Obviously, I can’t say no to you, so we should just get started.”

“No.” Stiles said. “No, you can say no. I - I didn’t mean to _force_ \- let me get Peter.”

“You didn’t mean to force me?” Derek spat out. “Don’t you think I _know_ that? You _meant_ to kill me.”

“I-” the boy choked out. “I probably wouldn’t have gone through with it.”

“You expect me to believe that?” 

Stiles squirmed and said, “Let me go get Peter,” who promptly opened the door, grinning. 

“Are we having trouble?” He took in the scene and, with mock surprise, exclaimed, “Derek! You haven’t taken off your robe yet. Really, how do you expect to please your prince like that. Take it off.”

“ _No_.” Stiles countered. “Leave it on. Peter, please. He doesn’t want this. I take back my favor - I’ll ask for something else.” 

“No,” Peter hummed, stepping towards his nephew, running a hand down the back of the silk robe, cupping and squeezing the prophet’s butt. “I believe I agreed to this arrangement.” 

“Then, I’ll call the whole arrangement off.” Stiles said, frustration mounting. “I don’t want him if he’s,” the prince paused, thinking of the least vulgar word. “Unwilling.” 

Peter paused and blinked over at him, one hand on the pink belt holding the robe closed. “Unwilling?” he repeated. “Why would he be unwilling to be in the service of a handsome young man? That makes no sense, my heart.”

Stiles shook his head. “You didn’t hear what he said earlier. He doesn’t want - It’s okay. Just send him back; I’ll call the whole thing off.”

Peter laughed - outright _laughed_ \- at him and pulled the bow of the sash loose, Derek’s robe falling open. The prophet shifted uncomfortably and he moved to hold it in place, but Peter caught his arm. “Sometimes I forget how completely terrible humans are at catching a lie. We _may_ have heard more than we let on before. I don’t think I’ve heard someone lie so poorly since you were a child.”

Stiles gawked a little, trying to respectfully keep his gaze from the opening of the robe. Derek was glaring, blushing, and looked embarrassed, which Stiles kind of thought was karmic justice but also kind of hated.

“Isn’t that right, Derek?” Peter continued. “Didn’t you want Stiles from the moment you saw him?” 

Stiles couldn’t hear much for a moment over the _thud thud thud_ of his heart, but it didn’t look like Derek had said anything, as his gaze darted quickly to Stiles’s wide eyes and flushed cheeks and open mouth and then to the opposite wall.

Peter caught Derek’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing his head up and back. “You want him, don’t you?” 

The prophet swallowed shallowly, as he finally admitted, “Yes.”

“All those nasty things you said to him - none of that was true?” Peter clarified.

“No.” Derek grit out.

“Being in his service wouldn’t be altogether unpleasant for you, would it?”

“ _No_.” he repeated. 

Peter hummed out a smug sound and leaned forward, brushing a kiss onto his nephew’s strained, bared neck. Stiles licked his lips at the display, his chest feeling too heavy. 

“That’s all great, Peter,” he said, “But I don’t have built in lie detectors like you guys.”

Peter looked at him with mock hurt, letting Derek go and nudging him toward Stiles. “Do you really think I’d bring an unwilling, undeserving man to my son’s bed? Especially for your first foray into intimacy, outside of family?” 

Stiles considered it, because he actually wasn’t really sure with Peter. He wouldn’t have put it past him to stage the whole thing to get out of his favor owed. Stiles eyed Derek, who was glowering at the floor, holding the robe closed.

“You, of course, my dearling, don’t have to believe me. Derek’s promised to be truthful, so you two can work it out.” Peter crossed the room to the door again. He paused and said, “Please _do_ try to work this out. I’ll be simply devastated if you can’t.” He shut the door behind him.

They were silent for a moment.

“He’s not listening at the door, is he?” Stiles asked slowly.

Derek, refusing to look at him, shook his head.

“I’ll, uh...” Stiles started. “I’ll call my other dad. He has more sway than Peter and then you won’t have to - with me.” 

“He wasn’t lying, you know.” Derek growled at his feet. 

Stiles stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Just now,” he continued, peeking up. “I wasn’t lying.”

“But, if you weren’t lying just now, why would you have said all that earlier?” Stiles asked, and suddenly he felt very young, very vulnerable. Softly, he hushed, “I just wanted to kiss you.”

Derek stared at him with some disbelief. “How can you be so naive?”

“Excuse you.” the prince huffed. “I’m _not_ naive.” 

“I can’t want that.” Derek snapped, and then relented, seeming unsure of himself. “I’m not supposed to want that.” 

“Because of the True Alpha?” Stiles asked, pulling a face. “That’s stupid. Why would he care?” Derek didn’t respond, just looking back down at the floor. Stiles took a tentative step forward. “Is it because I’m a boy or because I’m a guy?” The man did level a gaze at him then and Stiles flushed in embarrassment. “I meant, is it because I’m male or because I’m sixteen?”

“You’re asking like they can’t both be issues.”

“I don’t understand.” Stiles shook his head. “You’re the True Alpha’s prophet. Wouldn’t he want you, of all people, to be happy? Maybe I’m part of his grand plan? Maybe I can be your reward.” Stiles allowed himself to look hopeful and take another step towards him, so they were standing close. They boy could feel the heat of the man's over-warm body.

“And maybe you’re a test of my devotion.”

Stiles deflated a little. “Oh.”

Derek shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t-” He swallowed. “I don’t like it when you’re upset. It makes my wolf feel - wrong.”

“There are a couple of ways you could make me really happy.” Stiles offered with a smile. He gently took the prophet’s hand in his and, when Derek didn’t tug away, gripped tightly. 

“Okay.” Derek said, so softly Stiles almost missed it.

“Okay?” Stiles balked. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Derek murmured, peeking up at him. “Yeah. I want this.” he admitted, and it looked like the words hurt, so Stiles ducked his head, moving his gaze away.

“How do we...” Stiles trailed off.

Derek gestured vaguely at the bed. “You should lie down.”

“Are you sure?” Stiles repeated, looking between the man and his bed. Derek looked unimpressed.

“We could do this right here, if that’s what you want.” he stated and Stiles shook his head, turning towards the bed, his hand tugging Derek along. Stiles sat down but the prophet stood at the edge, as if hesitating. “What do you want?”

“Peter said I could have your head.” Stiles said, sounding more confident than he felt. No doubt, Derek could still hear his jack-rabbiting heart. “Do you want to give me head?” 

Looking down at the boy on the bed, seeming overwhelmed, as if the scene before him was too unreal to completely understand, Derek said, “Okay.”

“Just okay?” Stiles hummed. Derek met his gaze sharply. One knee came between Stiles’s legs as he crawled forward onto the bed. Stiles leaned back as the man closed in.

“Yeah.” he said, tugging at his pajama bottoms. “Okay. Take these off.” Stiles wriggled on his back, speeding to comply, and Derek resettled himself between the boy’s splayed legs. “Do you want me to take the robe off?” he asked, as Stiles threw the pants aside. 

Stiles looked him over. The robe hid nothing, draped open over his shoulders, looking pretty and soft and rich and like everything he wanted for his prophet. “Can you leave it on?”

“I can do whatever you want.” Derek told him.

“No, that’s not what I want.” Stiles immediately said. 

“Stiles,” Derek sighed, and the boy blinked. They were quiet for a second.

“That’s my name.” he said. “You just said my name. I didn’t know you knew it.” 

“Am I being too familiar?” the man asked, looking serious but sounding droll.

“Dude, I’m half-naked. You, for all intents and purposes, are totally naked. I don’t think too familiar could possibly apply. 

“I’m not totally naked.” Derek said. “You didn’t tell me if you wanted the robe on or off.”

“On.” Stiles bit out.

“Good.” Derek said, succinctly, fingers hooking in the waistband of the boy’s boxers. He started to ease them down, pulling them over the boy’s hard cock and the swell of his ass. He tugged soft cotton down the boy’s thighs and off, tossing them beside the prince’s discarded pants.

Derek didn’t kiss down his neck and chest, or say something sweet, or even touch him anywhere other than his hips, fingers digging in a little too tight. He just wet his lips, eyes darting only once to Stiles’s face, and brought his mouth to the head of his cock.

It was hot and wet - which was not surprising considering, but still _felt_ surprising. He only mouthed the tip to start, getting a taste for it, licking off the small amount of precome. Stiles was quiet - thankfully, in his opinion - until Derek opened his mouth a little more and sucked him in for the first time.

“Oh, _fuck_ , Derek.” he whined, and that was terrible because he wasn’t supposed to whine or buck or _squirm_ like he was. His hands fisted in the sheets as Derek held him down with one hand and steady with the other. “Derek, I’m not going to last long like this.” he moaned piteously.

Derek’s eyes darted up in acknowledgment as he bobbed his head, taking him in deeper, sucking harder, moaning at the taste. Stiles groaned, his head falling back against the pillow. The prophet kept sucking, his cheeks hollowed, his mouth so _hot_ , and Stiles really couldn’t take it much longer. 

“ _Derek_ ,” he said, “Derek, can you fuck me? Do you want to fuck me?”

The man nearly gagged on his dick and pulled off to look at him. His mouth was red and wet and open, his cheeks pink, his eyes blue, and the pink robe was lovely and _soft_ and sticking to him with sweat. He looked perfect - Stiles thought he should always look like this. “Yeah.” he said.

“Yeah?” Stiles repeated. 

“Yeah. I want to fuck you.”

“Okay, I have lube.” and Stiles nearly kicked Derek as he flipped himself over to grope around his bedside drawer. When he turned to pass the lube at the man, one hand came to his back, keeping him on his stomach. He heard the cap pop and then the bottle fell at his side, Derek tossing it away. 

Stiles was pulled up to his knees, his face down against his pillow, his ass up in the air. The man swiped his finger over the boy’s hole, and Stiles squirmed and made a small noise of displeasure at how cold it was. Stiles thought Derek was just going to give him a quick, cursory stretching, but both of his hands came up to spread his cheeks and Stiles felt something warm pressing against him.

Derek pushed the lube inside of him - with his _tongue_. That was his _tongue_. Stiles lost all ability to think clearly because Derek was behind him and something was warm, wiggling against him, and that was a _tongue_.

He didn’t know what he was trying to say - he wasn’t sure the words that came out of his mouth were even words at all - but he knew he made some noise that made Derek chuckle. Derek’s tongue was petting him open, and then fucking him open, and then petting again. Stubble burned against his ass, way too rough and way too real and way too Derek. He was so _wet_ , spit slicking down his taint, Derek adding more and more saliva as he ate him loose. 

“Derek, you _can’t_ -” Stiles said mindlessly, and the prophet paused, pulling back. The boy groaned. “No no no, you can, you can. I didn’t mean it.” and, laughing, Derek was back, licking inside. He shifted his hold on the boy, still kissing him sweetly, and started to tug at the rim with his fingers, pulling him wider, pressing more of his mouth inside.

Stiles sobbed into his pillow. “Derek, I’m going to come.” Derek’s hold shifted again and suddenly there was a finger nudging in alongside his tongue, and Stiles was crying at the sensation. “Derek, I wanna come with you fucking me.” That finger brushed over his prostate and he was gone, seeing white and wailing, shooting hot over his chest and stomach. “ _Derek_.” he groaned, half in pleasure, half in frustration. 

“You’re young.” Derek said, swiping his tongue one last time over the boy’s hole. “You can come again.”

“Oh my God.” Stiles moaned. Derek pulled away, leaving the prince cold as he reached for the lube. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Only a little bit.” Derek teased.

Stiles laughed. “Shut up.”

And Derek said, “Shh,” slicking up his own cock. With his other hand, he nudged two fingers inside, feeling how slick and open the boy was because of him. His fingers scissored and stretched the oversensitive inside of the boy, making him groan and shake. “You’re ready for me, aren’t you? You think you can take my cock now?” He brushed the pads of his fingers over that little spot and Stiles jolted.

“Yeah.” he said. “Come on - put it in me.”

Derek snorted. “You’re a prince. I’m sure they taught you better manners than that.”

Stiles huffed. “Not when it comes to you.” and then added, “Jesus, when did you become so sure of yourself?”

The prophet was quiet, lining his cock up at his hole, then rutting up against the boy’s crack. He leaned forward, weight heavy on the boy’s back, harshing out into his ear, “If I’m going to transgress, I might as well go all out this one time, right?’

“You only want to transgress this once?” Stiles murmured back, but Derek was starting to push in slowly and the boy’s words bit off, his teeth finding and taking his own lip. Derek’s arms circled his waist and chest and pulled him onto his knees, holding him there as he eased into the prince’s slick heat. One hand firm on his chest, supporting him against the prophet’s own, the other hand snaked down to cup and pump the boy’s now half-hard erection. All the way in now, he let the boy sit back and adjust as he worked the boy stiff.

“Okay.” Stiles panted. “You can move now.”

So, very slowly, Derek’s hand moving from the prince’s cock to his hip, he pulled out. Stiles wasn’t prepared for it, his breath choking out, when Derek rammed back in, hard. The boy saw stars and the prophet did it once more - a slow withdraw and a quick slam.

“ _Holy fuck_.” Stiles told him, once his mouth and throat were working again. Derek picked up the pace, pistoning his hips upward, the hand on the prince’s chest keeping him steady as he was bounced on the man’s cock. “Derek, I want to see you.” Stiles begged. “Let me see you, please.”

Gingerly, Derek pulled out and helped him onto his back, and the prophet's hands were so gentle with him that Stiles felt a little sad, his mind snagging on the fact that this was Derek’s one transgression, and those soft, easy hands might only guide his body this once. He almost started to regret asking to see him through this - it seeming too cruel to know what he looked like when he’d never see it again. 

But, as Derek lifted his knees up and back, the prince’s own hands trusted with the task of keeping them up, and he started to push in again - he looked so overwhelmed, so completely lost with the heat and feeling of Stiles’s tight body. Derek’s eyes caught his and he was all the way inside, his hips circling, screwing, inside of him, pressing and grinding in hard. Stiles's eyes were half-lidded, mouth panting slack, as honey met hazel until Derek, blushing, had to look away and bury his face in Stiles’s neck. 

Stiles's legs were hooked over the prophet’s shoulder, hands flying into his hair, as the man mouthed and licked and _bit_ at his neck, thrusting, shallowly, slowly. The boy's hand came in between them, starting to stroke himself, face to the side, trying to better bare his neck to the man. Gripping himself tightly, he was quite suddenly moaning out a high noise, words leaving him, and clenching around Derek, coming all over his hand. Derek groaned, shuddering towards his own release, which Stiles would have liked if he hadn’t sounded so damn _sad_. He was about to shush him, soothe him, but he felt what he assumed was the cause of Derek’s vocal distress.

“What is that?” he groaned, and winced, knowing exactly what that was, swelling and expanding inside of him. The man’s hips were flat against his ass, rocking but losing the ability to pull back. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, mindlessly, against his skin. He clutched at the boy a little too tight, and it didn’t seem like he was keeping it together.

“You’re _knotting_ me.” Stiles breathed, overwhelmed by the sensation - the _thought_ of it. He was being _knotted_ by the True Alpha’s prophet. And it hurt, because Derek was already big, but it was _perfect_. Except -

“Shh.” Derek said, like he couldn’t bear to hear what was happening.

“Derek,” he groaned, impossibly full as Derek was tied inside of him. He wasn’t thrusting anymore, but he had started to come. “Derek, knots are for-”

“I know, I know.” Derek harshed, still sounding sad.

“Oh, no, shh.” Stiles hushed. “Please, no. I’m not so bad, am I? Please, shh...”

“You’re not. You’re not bad. That’s the problem.”

“Look at me.” Stiles said, tugging lightly at his hair. “Come here.”

“I’m sorry, Stiles.” Derek told him. “I couldn’t stop it. It was - before I could stop it.”

“Shh.” Stiles said, cupping his cheeks in his hands. “Shh. I want you for this. Please, don’t be sorry. I’m not sorry. Don’t be sorry.” Derek didn’t look convinced. “It’s my first time,” the boy pouted. “At least _pretend_ that you like me.”

“I _do_ like you - that’s the problem.” Derek repeated.

“If you kiss me,” Stiles said by way of response, his thumb brushing over the man’s bottom lip, eyes stuck on the man’s. “I promise I’ll be your ally.” 

Derek hesitated, looked guilty, which Stiles hated because the man was still coming in hard and hot pulses inside of him, and the prince thought that no one should be allowed to look that upset when they were coming. But softly, as if second guessing himself the whole way, Derek leaned forward. He paused, his lips almost touching the boy’s, Stiles forgetting how to breathe for just a second, and then bridging the gap. He kissed him tenderly, tied deep inside of him, like this was the greatest thing he had ever done; the one act he cared about.

Breaking apart, Stiles smiled. “ _Finally_.” he murmured, and then leaned forward to kiss his prophet again.

**Author's Note:**

> Shameless tumblr plug: [My Blog](http://gigglesnortbangdead.tumblr.com/)


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